Her eyes are on me
I know it, o I do
My fingers tremble slightly
Remembering playing for her too
For I am the piano man
Getting paid by the sheet
She is the daughter of Mr Coone
With the world at her feet
She sits with a vodka in her hand
In a tiny red dress
I am belting out the notes
I couldn't care less
For I am the piano man
Getting paid by the sheet
She is the daughter of Mr Coone
With the world at her feet
I know she knows
I know everyone knows
I laugh with the old man at the bar
He is me, in another time, in younger clothes
For I am the piano man
Getting paid by the sheet
She is the daughter of Mr Coone
With the world at her feet
The room is dark
And her presence the only glow
She finishes her drink and gets up to leave
I wink at good ol' Jerry, getting on with the show
For I am the piano man
Getting paid by the sheet
She is the daughter of Mr Coone
With the world at her feet
I sing there every night
And they all sing along
There are new old men
Living their lives in my song
For I am the piano man
Getting paid by the sheet
She is the daughter of Mr Coone
With the world at her feet
There are waitresses, pretty ones
And many other princesses
But there never is her again
My girl in the tiny red dress
For I am the piano man
Getting paid by the sheet
She is the daughter of Mr Coone
With the world at her feet
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Independence Day
Do waqt ki roti nahi, toh ek baar hi sahi
Marne ka freedom zaroor hai, azaadi hai yahi
Kuch log kar aate hain duniya bhar ke chakkar
Kuchhon ne zindagi guzaar di seh kar thanedaar ki akad
Gulami nahi hai British ki aaj, toh kya
Neta hai hamare maalik, daur hai yeh naya
Pet jab churmurata hai, toh bech aate hain maa beti
Aatma toh chhodo, ek healthy kidney aadhe saal ka anaaj khareed deti
Padhe-likhe hain hum aur aap, humko kyaa padta farak
Kharab sadkon par jab accident hoga, tab chamaata padega kadak
Hogi hospital ki urgent zaroorat humko tab
Chalega pata sarkar ne sanction to ki, lekin Neta or bureaucrats khaa gaye paisa sab
Nahin kahengen hum aaj ki Hindustan azaad hai
Jab takk ispar gundagardi, garibi aur indifference kaa raaj hai
Marne ka freedom zaroor hai, azaadi hai yahi
Kuch log kar aate hain duniya bhar ke chakkar
Kuchhon ne zindagi guzaar di seh kar thanedaar ki akad
Gulami nahi hai British ki aaj, toh kya
Neta hai hamare maalik, daur hai yeh naya
Pet jab churmurata hai, toh bech aate hain maa beti
Aatma toh chhodo, ek healthy kidney aadhe saal ka anaaj khareed deti
Padhe-likhe hain hum aur aap, humko kyaa padta farak
Kharab sadkon par jab accident hoga, tab chamaata padega kadak
Hogi hospital ki urgent zaroorat humko tab
Chalega pata sarkar ne sanction to ki, lekin Neta or bureaucrats khaa gaye paisa sab
Nahin kahengen hum aaj ki Hindustan azaad hai
Jab takk ispar gundagardi, garibi aur indifference kaa raaj hai
Sunday, August 08, 2010
Third
Armaity Dilliwala looked incredulously at her report card again. No, there was no mistaking it. There it was.
Third.
She felt a little sick. In all the ten years of her life that she could remember, she had always come first. That is what she was known for. Her parents, their friends, relatives - they all joked about it. One joke in particular, her Uncle Jamshed liked to tell and retell - his wife Sherzeen and Armaity's mother Aloo had both had their due dates around the same time but a week before the due date, Aloo went into labor and after a relatively easy five hours, there she was - Armaity, always ahead of her peers.
And now this. She could feel the eyes of her classmates on her. She thought she heard some whispering and giggling. She was still standing in the same spot where she had opened the card and seen that ugly thing stamped across the bottom right corner.
She had no friends, at least none that would sympathize with her at this hour of need. She had always consoled herself thinking it was because all her classmates were jealous of her. Now surely, they would all be laughing at her.
Dazed, she made her way back to her car and still unbelieving she handed over the report to her mother after reaching home. She was expecting her parents to break into hysterics and drama, as was their wont. But her mother just said - Good child, well done. Chalo ni, Rustom Uncle nu iyahan jaavnu chhe.
Armaity was stunned. What was the biggest disaster in her life was being treated like ant-shit by her mother. She was relieved at one level but also slightly disappointed at another. Wasn't that the only thing which made her what she was - loved and special?
By the end of the week, she realized otherwise. Nothing around her changed. Her parents continued to behave the same way as before. They fussed about her, took her to her tuitions and scolded her annoying younger brother for raising hell with his toy guns while she did her daily home-work. Her classmates continued to come to her with sums they could not solve, and the teachers continued to leave her in-charge of the class during free-periods.
By the end of this life-changing week, she was grappling with a peculiar thought. Maybe, just maybe, there was more to her than her rank.
Third.
She felt a little sick. In all the ten years of her life that she could remember, she had always come first. That is what she was known for. Her parents, their friends, relatives - they all joked about it. One joke in particular, her Uncle Jamshed liked to tell and retell - his wife Sherzeen and Armaity's mother Aloo had both had their due dates around the same time but a week before the due date, Aloo went into labor and after a relatively easy five hours, there she was - Armaity, always ahead of her peers.
And now this. She could feel the eyes of her classmates on her. She thought she heard some whispering and giggling. She was still standing in the same spot where she had opened the card and seen that ugly thing stamped across the bottom right corner.
She had no friends, at least none that would sympathize with her at this hour of need. She had always consoled herself thinking it was because all her classmates were jealous of her. Now surely, they would all be laughing at her.
Dazed, she made her way back to her car and still unbelieving she handed over the report to her mother after reaching home. She was expecting her parents to break into hysterics and drama, as was their wont. But her mother just said - Good child, well done. Chalo ni, Rustom Uncle nu iyahan jaavnu chhe.
Armaity was stunned. What was the biggest disaster in her life was being treated like ant-shit by her mother. She was relieved at one level but also slightly disappointed at another. Wasn't that the only thing which made her what she was - loved and special?
By the end of the week, she realized otherwise. Nothing around her changed. Her parents continued to behave the same way as before. They fussed about her, took her to her tuitions and scolded her annoying younger brother for raising hell with his toy guns while she did her daily home-work. Her classmates continued to come to her with sums they could not solve, and the teachers continued to leave her in-charge of the class during free-periods.
By the end of this life-changing week, she was grappling with a peculiar thought. Maybe, just maybe, there was more to her than her rank.
Playgirl
The way to my heart
Is not an easy path
The journey offers little consolation
It is all about destination
Coz I am the kinda gal
Who once hooked will never pall
For better or for worse
It is your blessing, it is your curse
The body is easily reparable
Not the heart so able
It is under lock and key
There, I've said it, since you cant see
Coz I am the kinda gal
Who once hooked will never pall
For better or for worse
It is your blessing, it is your curse
Maybe you want something easy
Less intense, more breezy
That is your choice to make
But get out now, get out for my sake
Coz I am the kinda gal
Who once hooked will never pall
For better or for worse
It is your blessing, it is your curse
Is not an easy path
The journey offers little consolation
It is all about destination
Coz I am the kinda gal
Who once hooked will never pall
For better or for worse
It is your blessing, it is your curse
The body is easily reparable
Not the heart so able
It is under lock and key
There, I've said it, since you cant see
Coz I am the kinda gal
Who once hooked will never pall
For better or for worse
It is your blessing, it is your curse
Maybe you want something easy
Less intense, more breezy
That is your choice to make
But get out now, get out for my sake
Coz I am the kinda gal
Who once hooked will never pall
For better or for worse
It is your blessing, it is your curse
Sunday, August 01, 2010
Second
He already had a best friend. How could he have another?
Seven-year old Akash was facing a dilemma. His school teacher had given his class an essay to write on their best friend. His best friend was in Lucknow, the city he had moved from, just four months ago. Amit and he had gone to the same school, in the same bus, to the same class, for three years. Such things cannot be overwritten.
Still, there was Venkat. Venkat had looked at him pointedly when he had told him about the essay. How he wished now that he hadn't told Venkat about it.
It had all started with a game of cricket, as most things do. Venkat and Ramnish were chosen to be the captains and they in-turn had to pick their teams. Akash stood there, a newbie in the group, seven years of having no playmates around in the locality he had just moved from having turned him into somewhat of a wall-flower as far as sports were concerned. His heart sank as one by one, Venkat and Ramnish plucked off the other boys and he was certain he would not be picked, meaning he would go to the team whose captain had lost the right to start choosing first. He stood with his head hanging in shame. Only later in life would be realize that shame is an obstacle of class A variety and is best discarded as soon as possible.
And then the incredible happened. He got picked. Actually picked, not thrown into the team which had no choice but to take him, but picked - fair and square.
He looked up, his eyes shining, and skipped across to Venkat's side, feeling mighty proud at what seemed to him, the biggest achievement of his young life.
So uptil now, he had fuzzily thought of Venkat as being his second-best friend in the world, and the best friend he had in this city. But he knew, he just knew, that Venkat would not like being relegated to second-best position.
The problem gnawed at him like nothing else had ever before. And he knew he had to reach a decision soon. The essay was due Monday.
As he sat, pencil poised over notebook, he thought back to all the good things that either of them had ever done for him. Amit had saved him from a street-dog once and had even let him use the fancy new pencil that his father had got him from Bombay. He had always given him good advice. Like the time, when he had wanted to invite his favorite teacher for his birthday party and Amit had suggested that he wear perfume while doing it, since it would make him look more grown-up and of course, nobody ever refused anything to a grown-up. On the other hand, Venkat had taken him into his team, and more importantly, under his wing - teaching him how to get a bit of a spin into his bowling so that the bigger boys take notice. He also invited him to his home from time to time, where his mother served him the most delicious rasmalai that he had ever had. He sometimes even let him ride his bicycle, which was new and had bouncy new tires, unlike his old one.
With aching brow and a tempestuous mind, did Akash finally come to a decision between the two mighty contenders in what was the most ferociously fought battle in his life, even though the participants were unaware of it.
And so it happened, that the essay that was turned in by Akash Saxena on Monday morning started saying - A best friend is one who takes care of you when you are in any problem and I am very happy that I have two..
Seven-year old Akash was facing a dilemma. His school teacher had given his class an essay to write on their best friend. His best friend was in Lucknow, the city he had moved from, just four months ago. Amit and he had gone to the same school, in the same bus, to the same class, for three years. Such things cannot be overwritten.
Still, there was Venkat. Venkat had looked at him pointedly when he had told him about the essay. How he wished now that he hadn't told Venkat about it.
It had all started with a game of cricket, as most things do. Venkat and Ramnish were chosen to be the captains and they in-turn had to pick their teams. Akash stood there, a newbie in the group, seven years of having no playmates around in the locality he had just moved from having turned him into somewhat of a wall-flower as far as sports were concerned. His heart sank as one by one, Venkat and Ramnish plucked off the other boys and he was certain he would not be picked, meaning he would go to the team whose captain had lost the right to start choosing first. He stood with his head hanging in shame. Only later in life would be realize that shame is an obstacle of class A variety and is best discarded as soon as possible.
And then the incredible happened. He got picked. Actually picked, not thrown into the team which had no choice but to take him, but picked - fair and square.
He looked up, his eyes shining, and skipped across to Venkat's side, feeling mighty proud at what seemed to him, the biggest achievement of his young life.
So uptil now, he had fuzzily thought of Venkat as being his second-best friend in the world, and the best friend he had in this city. But he knew, he just knew, that Venkat would not like being relegated to second-best position.
The problem gnawed at him like nothing else had ever before. And he knew he had to reach a decision soon. The essay was due Monday.
As he sat, pencil poised over notebook, he thought back to all the good things that either of them had ever done for him. Amit had saved him from a street-dog once and had even let him use the fancy new pencil that his father had got him from Bombay. He had always given him good advice. Like the time, when he had wanted to invite his favorite teacher for his birthday party and Amit had suggested that he wear perfume while doing it, since it would make him look more grown-up and of course, nobody ever refused anything to a grown-up. On the other hand, Venkat had taken him into his team, and more importantly, under his wing - teaching him how to get a bit of a spin into his bowling so that the bigger boys take notice. He also invited him to his home from time to time, where his mother served him the most delicious rasmalai that he had ever had. He sometimes even let him ride his bicycle, which was new and had bouncy new tires, unlike his old one.
With aching brow and a tempestuous mind, did Akash finally come to a decision between the two mighty contenders in what was the most ferociously fought battle in his life, even though the participants were unaware of it.
And so it happened, that the essay that was turned in by Akash Saxena on Monday morning started saying - A best friend is one who takes care of you when you are in any problem and I am very happy that I have two..
First
It was the first day and her stomach definitely knew it. She had put up a brave face while being dropped off at the gate, but now as the great blue building loomed up frighteningly stark, she stood rooted to the spot.
The other thing which made her throat dry were the hordes of raucous girls milling around - there were groups of them in every corner, all looking similar in their pleated blue skirts and starched white collared shirts yet different enough for her to know that there could be a multitude of rejections, multitude of sniggers.
She stood there for sometime, both relieved and worried that nobody had noticed her as yet. And then suddenly, one of the brightly chattering girls looked her way and stopped her incessant flow for a second. The others in her group also looked at where she was looking and for a moment there was silence. And then there was a giggle. Or half a giggle. But it was enough. It broke into a deluge of whispers, nudges and sly glances. It was not long before some of the other cliques standing around caught on.
She sighed. A little in relief. Well, now she knew where she stood. She had that decision taken out of her hands.
The new weird kid. In a pink frock with puffed-up sleeves and a broad flowing crinkled tunic, knee-length socks and canvas shoes from Bata, matching ribbons in her hair and spectacles.
Years later, she would thank her stars that she got her first lesson on keeping the ol' chin up - inadvertently, mostly because her mother had such a bad sense of style.
The other thing which made her throat dry were the hordes of raucous girls milling around - there were groups of them in every corner, all looking similar in their pleated blue skirts and starched white collared shirts yet different enough for her to know that there could be a multitude of rejections, multitude of sniggers.
She stood there for sometime, both relieved and worried that nobody had noticed her as yet. And then suddenly, one of the brightly chattering girls looked her way and stopped her incessant flow for a second. The others in her group also looked at where she was looking and for a moment there was silence. And then there was a giggle. Or half a giggle. But it was enough. It broke into a deluge of whispers, nudges and sly glances. It was not long before some of the other cliques standing around caught on.
She sighed. A little in relief. Well, now she knew where she stood. She had that decision taken out of her hands.
The new weird kid. In a pink frock with puffed-up sleeves and a broad flowing crinkled tunic, knee-length socks and canvas shoes from Bata, matching ribbons in her hair and spectacles.
Years later, she would thank her stars that she got her first lesson on keeping the ol' chin up - inadvertently, mostly because her mother had such a bad sense of style.
Friday, July 30, 2010
A dream
The car goes thump-a-bump
As I shut me eye
And there goes ol Missus Golita
She always smells of apple-pie
Look a little further
Ho, 'tis that monkey of a lad
Truanting off from school he be
Aye, will end up something bad
And who goes in that hansom cab
All clip-clop and shutters drawn
Would that be the military gent
His wife left him, they say, 'is heart is torn
O there comes the postman
Rat-a-tat he sharply knocks
Telegrams are the worst of all
A gentle man, he'd rather be darning socks
Ump! There is a terrible bump
And my brain jumps inside my head
My mum she turns and says to me
What were you dreaming about Fred?
As I shut me eye
And there goes ol Missus Golita
She always smells of apple-pie
Look a little further
Ho, 'tis that monkey of a lad
Truanting off from school he be
Aye, will end up something bad
And who goes in that hansom cab
All clip-clop and shutters drawn
Would that be the military gent
His wife left him, they say, 'is heart is torn
O there comes the postman
Rat-a-tat he sharply knocks
Telegrams are the worst of all
A gentle man, he'd rather be darning socks
Ump! There is a terrible bump
And my brain jumps inside my head
My mum she turns and says to me
What were you dreaming about Fred?
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Sheroo
I read Alec the other day and something she said made me realize that I have not yet intimated junta about one of the most amusing displays of weird human behaviour I have seen.
I hate nicknames. And find people who have a natural proclivity to nickname - hilarious at best and annoying at worst.
I have seen people get on nickname basis with complete strangers after two meetings, probably a couple of loo encounters, no more. I have seen people shorten already short names ridiculously - like say, Pilu to Pils (That is another one, why must we add an 's' to everything? Anyways is not a word, nor is chalos or byes or lols!)
So in the world of unnecessary nicknaming, Shraddha becomes Shrads and Namrita - Namu, Aditya is Adi and Natasha, Nats or Nuts.
Don't get me wrong, I am all for having cute funny names for people, which symbolize them or came into existence because of some un/fortunate incident. But it seems sometimes that people do it just to prove or impress familiarity or to sound cool!
Also nicknames are the prerogative of people who are actually close to you, logic being that they have to call your name out so many times that they have to shorten it - it would actually save time (there does not have to be a logic for everything, but I do believe there is). So it's ok if your mother calls you Namu, or your best friends or colleagues call you Adi, but if your friend's friend who just met you starts to call you that, it's time to hit him over the head!
I have had some nicknames or something like nicknames. People have called me Shrek, billi, S, Dola, DR among others. But nobody constantly keeps calling me any of that. Also, these are fun names, meant to be used in fun.
Half of my family calls me Ruchi. That is, strangely, my nick. More understandably, my mother's nick is Binny from her actual name Vineeta and everybody in the family calls her that. But I have never heard anybody from outside the family calling her Binny, that would be weird. Similarly, if somebody arbit was to call me Ruchi (am ok with really close friends doing that) or worse - Ruch, it would just piss me off.
Point is everybody should know their place in how far to go, trying to come off as friendly. It is the fake affection that people usually try to denote using such things, which is annoying.
I hate nicknames. And find people who have a natural proclivity to nickname - hilarious at best and annoying at worst.
I have seen people get on nickname basis with complete strangers after two meetings, probably a couple of loo encounters, no more. I have seen people shorten already short names ridiculously - like say, Pilu to Pils (That is another one, why must we add an 's' to everything? Anyways is not a word, nor is chalos or byes or lols!)
So in the world of unnecessary nicknaming, Shraddha becomes Shrads and Namrita - Namu, Aditya is Adi and Natasha, Nats or Nuts.
Don't get me wrong, I am all for having cute funny names for people, which symbolize them or came into existence because of some un/fortunate incident. But it seems sometimes that people do it just to prove or impress familiarity or to sound cool!
Also nicknames are the prerogative of people who are actually close to you, logic being that they have to call your name out so many times that they have to shorten it - it would actually save time (there does not have to be a logic for everything, but I do believe there is). So it's ok if your mother calls you Namu, or your best friends or colleagues call you Adi, but if your friend's friend who just met you starts to call you that, it's time to hit him over the head!
I have had some nicknames or something like nicknames. People have called me Shrek, billi, S, Dola, DR among others. But nobody constantly keeps calling me any of that. Also, these are fun names, meant to be used in fun.
Half of my family calls me Ruchi. That is, strangely, my nick. More understandably, my mother's nick is Binny from her actual name Vineeta and everybody in the family calls her that. But I have never heard anybody from outside the family calling her Binny, that would be weird. Similarly, if somebody arbit was to call me Ruchi (am ok with really close friends doing that) or worse - Ruch, it would just piss me off.
Point is everybody should know their place in how far to go, trying to come off as friendly. It is the fake affection that people usually try to denote using such things, which is annoying.
Tuesday, July 06, 2010
Patna and then some
Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night thinking about work. It's gets grimmer when I reveal that that also happens while I am on leave.
The other day and why only the other day - I have been cribbing about this all along the past one year - I said something about the responsibility of my job weighing heavy on me. Well, it struck me suddenly that doctors, young doctors, surgeons have infinitesimally more responsibility and that compared to them, my job is a breeze. No?
Patna has been great this time, considering that I have 'grown-up' so to say and bring into the equation a lot of wisdom now. Ahem, relatively. Wisdom to look beyond the petty difficulties of living for some time in a small city and a joint family set-up - the lack of privacy (that used to rankle when one was seventeen and one thought one had a life which had to kept a secret because firstly - just, and secondly - the parents would be liable to throw a fit at some of the ingredients that constituted said life), the unpredictable status of electricity (although all homes have generators and inverters now), boredom (yes, grown-ups can be boring. Oh wait, only those above the age of thirrrtyyyy-five. Now, fortunately, there is the laptop loaded with stuff waiting to be watched, there is the phone which is connected to the internet and also, one is old enough to engage fruitfully in adult conversation). So, really, due to reasons known and unknown, Patna has been different this time.
Mostly because for the first time, I saw it from the outside.
Till the time my grandmother, my Nani passed away, Nana's house was the regular haunt for all us cousins - an entire cricket team, or something close. We would do the same things again and again every summer holidays - watch the same movies - Naseeb, Namak Halal, Apne Paraye, Woh Saat Din - these are the movies my Nani had (which got robbed some time back, yes - ROBBED). We would go to the same places to eat, our favorites - the Chow Cart serving up huge quantities of noodles, delicious to our young and innocent taste-buds, Sweet Home with the best Pizzas in the world (those were times unsullied by Dominoes and Pizza Hut, but I still maintain that Sweet Home Pizza is the best I have ever tasted) among many others. We would lie in wait for this guy selling Golden Ice-cream to show up, banging his ice-cream box and we would plead with out mothers to let us have it just this one time, as if our lives depended on it.
Patna would mean cousins, food, movies, gossip, some fighting and visiting relatives one didn't even know one had.
My Dadis's house was relatively sober in comparison, the cousins there younger and not quite so rambunctious. It had a pond though. A green taalaab just behind the house, where I used to believe one could go and fish. I also remember us having ducks in the backyard - batakhs. Angry little things, always flapping their wings. And best of all, there was the bhandar - the storeroom. A dark little place piled high with all sorts of things stored in glass bottles and tin cans. I was a regular raider on those premises, stealing achaar (which people around would keep insisting would darken my complexion and lead to unimaginable consequences). I remember how my Baba and Dadi would constantly keep fussing over me, wanting to know what I wanted to eat and I would constantly keep asking for Maggie.
All this came to an end, when first my Dadi passed away around ten years back. And my Baba came to live in Mumbai. Then my Nani passed away around six years back, my Nana continued to live in the same house, though much changed.
And now that I have come here after almost eleven years, I see the difference. That feels like an era and I am looking at it from the outside. Reminiscing about simpler times, although I must admit, I was always a great one for complicating everything inside my head, a great, or at least an incessant thinker if I have to put a positive spin on things.
But all said and done, I don't think I ever woke up in the middle of the night, obsessing about holiday homework. No Sir, that is a recent phenomena. And I daresay, I need treatment.
The other day and why only the other day - I have been cribbing about this all along the past one year - I said something about the responsibility of my job weighing heavy on me. Well, it struck me suddenly that doctors, young doctors, surgeons have infinitesimally more responsibility and that compared to them, my job is a breeze. No?
Patna has been great this time, considering that I have 'grown-up' so to say and bring into the equation a lot of wisdom now. Ahem, relatively. Wisdom to look beyond the petty difficulties of living for some time in a small city and a joint family set-up - the lack of privacy (that used to rankle when one was seventeen and one thought one had a life which had to kept a secret because firstly - just, and secondly - the parents would be liable to throw a fit at some of the ingredients that constituted said life), the unpredictable status of electricity (although all homes have generators and inverters now), boredom (yes, grown-ups can be boring. Oh wait, only those above the age of thirrrtyyyy-five. Now, fortunately, there is the laptop loaded with stuff waiting to be watched, there is the phone which is connected to the internet and also, one is old enough to engage fruitfully in adult conversation). So, really, due to reasons known and unknown, Patna has been different this time.
Mostly because for the first time, I saw it from the outside.
Till the time my grandmother, my Nani passed away, Nana's house was the regular haunt for all us cousins - an entire cricket team, or something close. We would do the same things again and again every summer holidays - watch the same movies - Naseeb, Namak Halal, Apne Paraye, Woh Saat Din - these are the movies my Nani had (which got robbed some time back, yes - ROBBED). We would go to the same places to eat, our favorites - the Chow Cart serving up huge quantities of noodles, delicious to our young and innocent taste-buds, Sweet Home with the best Pizzas in the world (those were times unsullied by Dominoes and Pizza Hut, but I still maintain that Sweet Home Pizza is the best I have ever tasted) among many others. We would lie in wait for this guy selling Golden Ice-cream to show up, banging his ice-cream box and we would plead with out mothers to let us have it just this one time, as if our lives depended on it.
Patna would mean cousins, food, movies, gossip, some fighting and visiting relatives one didn't even know one had.
My Dadis's house was relatively sober in comparison, the cousins there younger and not quite so rambunctious. It had a pond though. A green taalaab just behind the house, where I used to believe one could go and fish. I also remember us having ducks in the backyard - batakhs. Angry little things, always flapping their wings. And best of all, there was the bhandar - the storeroom. A dark little place piled high with all sorts of things stored in glass bottles and tin cans. I was a regular raider on those premises, stealing achaar (which people around would keep insisting would darken my complexion and lead to unimaginable consequences). I remember how my Baba and Dadi would constantly keep fussing over me, wanting to know what I wanted to eat and I would constantly keep asking for Maggie.
All this came to an end, when first my Dadi passed away around ten years back. And my Baba came to live in Mumbai. Then my Nani passed away around six years back, my Nana continued to live in the same house, though much changed.
And now that I have come here after almost eleven years, I see the difference. That feels like an era and I am looking at it from the outside. Reminiscing about simpler times, although I must admit, I was always a great one for complicating everything inside my head, a great, or at least an incessant thinker if I have to put a positive spin on things.
But all said and done, I don't think I ever woke up in the middle of the night, obsessing about holiday homework. No Sir, that is a recent phenomena. And I daresay, I need treatment.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
The heat is on
Delhi is radiating heat. I, one who spends close to one-third of the month in the burning haze of Northern Maharashtra (places like Jalgaon etc, where the Jal in Jalgaon can be interpreted as burn and also ironically as water), bow down to the Surya dev and plead with him to leave this city alone. Yes, even if it peoples folks such as it does.
I am on leave and struggling with the concept. The mind is not at ease, it is thinking of all the stuff that is piling up silently and ominously on the side, like a tottering tower of Pisa.
The meet with the parents went well. Actually, very well. Like I remarked to somebody recently, the problem with that boy is that he does not have a bit of vice in him (except for narcissism, which I condone, seeing how it is my Achilles heel) and hence comes across as extremely accommodating and ernest. Well, parents have a liking for that kind of thing and they took a shine to him. Not that I had any doubt, but phew.
Apart from that, have been watching a lot of tv. Finished reading this book called The Unbearable Lightness of Scones - Alexander McCall Smith. Funny sort of book. First hand accounts from various characters, all Scottish, and consisting of mostly only conversations. Next on the list is the Meluha book - having heard so much about it and it being on the premises, how with my sister being gifted with a copy.
Speaking of books, the other day I was thumbing through an Oscar Wilde play (I have made The complete works of Oscar Wilde my read-in-Landmark book. Every time I go to Landmark and that is quite often, I continue from where I had left off) and I came across this intriguing idea.
So basically it says that while men love women with all their flaws and sometimes, because of the flaws, women love men because of the good in them. In fact, most of us play up the men in our lives to be better than they actually are, putting them on a pedestal so to speak (that would explain my comments earlier about you-know-who, heheheh) and then obviously, nobody is that perfect. Hence, women are more liable to feel hurt and such like, when their dream-world comes crashing down. I do agree. I feel we women don't have too strong a grip on reality. We are floating somewhere in between our fantasy worlds (comprising and because of, all the movies we watch, stories we hear, books we read) and ground zero. Every young girl has a version of her Mr Right and some fortunately grow up and realize that he does not exist before there is any lasting damage, some don't.
In that way, women seem to be more impressionable than men. Men to me, seem to be ambling through life, letting all its barbs and stabs slide over their rough hide, simplistic and naive whereas women are constantly hyperventilating all those barbs into a conspiracy by the Universe.
What do you think?
I am on leave and struggling with the concept. The mind is not at ease, it is thinking of all the stuff that is piling up silently and ominously on the side, like a tottering tower of Pisa.
The meet with the parents went well. Actually, very well. Like I remarked to somebody recently, the problem with that boy is that he does not have a bit of vice in him (except for narcissism, which I condone, seeing how it is my Achilles heel) and hence comes across as extremely accommodating and ernest. Well, parents have a liking for that kind of thing and they took a shine to him. Not that I had any doubt, but phew.
Apart from that, have been watching a lot of tv. Finished reading this book called The Unbearable Lightness of Scones - Alexander McCall Smith. Funny sort of book. First hand accounts from various characters, all Scottish, and consisting of mostly only conversations. Next on the list is the Meluha book - having heard so much about it and it being on the premises, how with my sister being gifted with a copy.
Speaking of books, the other day I was thumbing through an Oscar Wilde play (I have made The complete works of Oscar Wilde my read-in-Landmark book. Every time I go to Landmark and that is quite often, I continue from where I had left off) and I came across this intriguing idea.
So basically it says that while men love women with all their flaws and sometimes, because of the flaws, women love men because of the good in them. In fact, most of us play up the men in our lives to be better than they actually are, putting them on a pedestal so to speak (that would explain my comments earlier about you-know-who, heheheh) and then obviously, nobody is that perfect. Hence, women are more liable to feel hurt and such like, when their dream-world comes crashing down. I do agree. I feel we women don't have too strong a grip on reality. We are floating somewhere in between our fantasy worlds (comprising and because of, all the movies we watch, stories we hear, books we read) and ground zero. Every young girl has a version of her Mr Right and some fortunately grow up and realize that he does not exist before there is any lasting damage, some don't.
In that way, women seem to be more impressionable than men. Men to me, seem to be ambling through life, letting all its barbs and stabs slide over their rough hide, simplistic and naive whereas women are constantly hyperventilating all those barbs into a conspiracy by the Universe.
What do you think?
Friday, June 25, 2010
Glee
Things are looking wonderful. (Almost). My parents are getting here tomorrow, we are attending Bua's and Chhote Papa's 25th wedding anniversary and then I am heading off with them to Delhi. But that is not all. From there, I shall go to Patna for a few days. After eleven years. Hard to believe it has been that long. I can picture that place in my head like it was just yesterday.
And still, that is not all. My parents are meeting Ankit this weekend and I am thrilled. It will be good to watch him squirm.
I just finished reading 'The Kite Runner' and I think it is well written, but I failed to experience the protagonist's pain. The protagonist as a child commits an act of betrayal towards a friend, whose loyalty towards him remains as staunch as ever even after the incident, and he lives to regret it everyday of his life. I know only too well how disproportionately big all the silly worries of childhood seem, and this is not even a silly thing that he does - it does have immense grief value, but even so, the ghost of this incident at every point in his life and him thinking that it is equivalent to having a hidden past and a terrible secret, is a little hard to digest. I also think the book drags a little in the end.
There I go, critiquing away to the high heavens. I guess I was expecting more. The descriptions of Afghanistan are breathtaking though. That and the stomach-clenching tales of the Taliban. Cannot believe such violence exists. And such bigots breed in our midst. I wonder what the Universe is playing at? Is there really no concept of divine justice? Nature's fury?
On the work front, this week I had to let a guy from my team go. I mean, I had to sack him. Don't feel good about it. I wish I didn't have such responsibilities. I am not capable of taking them lightly. I work myself up trying to beat the balance between encouraging my guys and kicking their butt when they don't deliver. At the end of it, I just want to have made the right decisions, not just for the business, but also for them. And sometimes, it is not one and the same thing.
Well, what with all this, have started feeling like a million years old. No, really, like there isn't any room for mistakes. Like the phase is past when I could call myself a beginner, a newbie, bound to - nay - expected to, make mistakes. I know that mistakes made by me now are not just going to affect me but many other people also. And the knowledge of that still takes my breath away.
Hmm..let me not end this post on a solemn note, what started out as happy. So here is a brief description of my room.
My room looks pretty. I have a television set, on which I have put my Oktoberfest hat. The television sits on a table for which I am thankful as I have stuffed, no, aesthetically arranged my books on the racks inside it. Had there been no room inside this table, my books would have been gathering dust inside some ugly brown carton. There is a tiny cupboard next to this television-table ensemble (everything is tiny in my room, like it was made for Hobbits) on top of which, due to lack of other places to keep them in, I have kept a few soft toys (all gifts, I find myself clarifying) along with various perfumes (gifts again), massage oils (I bought them - fancy - I know), free deos and facewashes (I do have some perks, few and far between though they are) and other assorted items. This cupboard is a pretty brown color too, like caramel. Next, there is a knee-high glass-topped wooden table on the other side of the television, with an in-built drawer which serves as my DVD store. On top of the table, I have carelessly flung my Red Bull mat (the one that we flicked from Geoffrey's in Bangalore) and a Scrabble set. On the space in between the glass top and the drawer, resides my Shakrukh-Khan-coffee-table-book (It was a birthday gift from him and I am pretty sure lugging it around was the final straw on the camel's back, quite literally as my back started to play up soon after. But oh. Did I forget to mention that I love it and will take that book to my grave and no, not because of SRK?).
So there's a corner of my room, all described. I rather liked describing it. I have always wondered how authors of serious novels describe the simplest of things in so much detail. I don't even know the English (or Hindi) names of half the things around me. For example, what do you call those things that curtains have, the ones by which they hang on rods? I am sure Hosseini could write a page on them.
And still, that is not all. My parents are meeting Ankit this weekend and I am thrilled. It will be good to watch him squirm.
I just finished reading 'The Kite Runner' and I think it is well written, but I failed to experience the protagonist's pain. The protagonist as a child commits an act of betrayal towards a friend, whose loyalty towards him remains as staunch as ever even after the incident, and he lives to regret it everyday of his life. I know only too well how disproportionately big all the silly worries of childhood seem, and this is not even a silly thing that he does - it does have immense grief value, but even so, the ghost of this incident at every point in his life and him thinking that it is equivalent to having a hidden past and a terrible secret, is a little hard to digest. I also think the book drags a little in the end.
There I go, critiquing away to the high heavens. I guess I was expecting more. The descriptions of Afghanistan are breathtaking though. That and the stomach-clenching tales of the Taliban. Cannot believe such violence exists. And such bigots breed in our midst. I wonder what the Universe is playing at? Is there really no concept of divine justice? Nature's fury?
On the work front, this week I had to let a guy from my team go. I mean, I had to sack him. Don't feel good about it. I wish I didn't have such responsibilities. I am not capable of taking them lightly. I work myself up trying to beat the balance between encouraging my guys and kicking their butt when they don't deliver. At the end of it, I just want to have made the right decisions, not just for the business, but also for them. And sometimes, it is not one and the same thing.
Well, what with all this, have started feeling like a million years old. No, really, like there isn't any room for mistakes. Like the phase is past when I could call myself a beginner, a newbie, bound to - nay - expected to, make mistakes. I know that mistakes made by me now are not just going to affect me but many other people also. And the knowledge of that still takes my breath away.
Hmm..let me not end this post on a solemn note, what started out as happy. So here is a brief description of my room.
My room looks pretty. I have a television set, on which I have put my Oktoberfest hat. The television sits on a table for which I am thankful as I have stuffed, no, aesthetically arranged my books on the racks inside it. Had there been no room inside this table, my books would have been gathering dust inside some ugly brown carton. There is a tiny cupboard next to this television-table ensemble (everything is tiny in my room, like it was made for Hobbits) on top of which, due to lack of other places to keep them in, I have kept a few soft toys (all gifts, I find myself clarifying) along with various perfumes (gifts again), massage oils (I bought them - fancy - I know), free deos and facewashes (I do have some perks, few and far between though they are) and other assorted items. This cupboard is a pretty brown color too, like caramel. Next, there is a knee-high glass-topped wooden table on the other side of the television, with an in-built drawer which serves as my DVD store. On top of the table, I have carelessly flung my Red Bull mat (the one that we flicked from Geoffrey's in Bangalore) and a Scrabble set. On the space in between the glass top and the drawer, resides my Shakrukh-Khan-coffee-table-book (It was a birthday gift from him and I am pretty sure lugging it around was the final straw on the camel's back, quite literally as my back started to play up soon after. But oh. Did I forget to mention that I love it and will take that book to my grave and no, not because of SRK?).
So there's a corner of my room, all described. I rather liked describing it. I have always wondered how authors of serious novels describe the simplest of things in so much detail. I don't even know the English (or Hindi) names of half the things around me. For example, what do you call those things that curtains have, the ones by which they hang on rods? I am sure Hosseini could write a page on them.
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Just generally
I do some blog surfing nowadays and a couple of blogs are my favorites. One of them bloggers is really into it, she visualizes her blog as a bar and herself as the bartender, serving up posts or drinks for everyone who drops in. What is amazing are the labels under which her posts are categorized - Polls, Bollywood Buzz, Recipe for the month, etc. She is pretty consistent with her content. Her blog is well thought out and well laid out apart from being just well written. And she regularly meets up with the other bloggers taking what is largely for me a way to vent and derive some creative satisfaction at times, to an entirely new level.
Here is the link - http://sayesha.blogspot.com
The weekend has arrived and I find myself incapable of feeling entirely wrinkle-free happy. Well, not true. Friday evenings are like that - not-a-cloud-on-the-horizon kinda happy. The part of me that plays the figure of authority about these things allows me that one evening to put everything on the back-burner. Come Saturday morning and I start worrying about how to plan the weekend so that all that pending stuff gets done and fun is also had. Ironic, huh? There is also a bit of work and my team is working Saturday so I am not completely off. Saturday evening is again a sort of respite from it all, and then dawns the Grand ol' Sunday.
I remember a time when Sunday used to be only about watching cartoons early in the morning, I used to have a pretty busy schedule, then an awesome lunch and a lazy evening spent doing not much that I can remember, leading up to Monday, eagerly awaited. Those were the days when school was the one thing I would look forward to the most. I had to be dragged away from it for holidays and stuff, or even when I would be unwell.
Now? Hmm. Let's see. Sunday brings with it the worst sense of foreboding about the week that is about to begin. It brings with it that feeling of hastily wanting to enjoy the last few moments of freedom knowing that those moments are going to run out very soon. It brings with it the feeling of having wasted the weekend - if worked too much, then wasted the weekend working too much and not sleeping/having fun/ticking off all those other jobs to be done apart from work; and if not worked at all - then wasted the opportunity to peacefully sit and analyze some or the other data, or put on the hold some not-so-important-thing which would come and undoubtedly smite me between the eyes on Monday morning.
Sigh.
No no, Life isn't all this bad and I am not this implacable.
I do sometimes wish I had been wiser fifteen years back and known that those were the Golden days, although that would not have served any purpose really. Well, adulthood sucks. I still see myself as a loafer who does not know what she wants. Still trying to decide what to make a career in. Still at a stage where Lipstick seems too grown-up and hence, does not figure in the scheme of things.
Life is slipping me by and I am selling soap. Albeit in a way that is adding a lot of skills and experience and all that to me. Still. I tell you, that is something to be slisha concerned about.
Here is the link - http://sayesha.blogspot.com
The weekend has arrived and I find myself incapable of feeling entirely wrinkle-free happy. Well, not true. Friday evenings are like that - not-a-cloud-on-the-horizon kinda happy. The part of me that plays the figure of authority about these things allows me that one evening to put everything on the back-burner. Come Saturday morning and I start worrying about how to plan the weekend so that all that pending stuff gets done and fun is also had. Ironic, huh? There is also a bit of work and my team is working Saturday so I am not completely off. Saturday evening is again a sort of respite from it all, and then dawns the Grand ol' Sunday.
I remember a time when Sunday used to be only about watching cartoons early in the morning, I used to have a pretty busy schedule, then an awesome lunch and a lazy evening spent doing not much that I can remember, leading up to Monday, eagerly awaited. Those were the days when school was the one thing I would look forward to the most. I had to be dragged away from it for holidays and stuff, or even when I would be unwell.
Now? Hmm. Let's see. Sunday brings with it the worst sense of foreboding about the week that is about to begin. It brings with it that feeling of hastily wanting to enjoy the last few moments of freedom knowing that those moments are going to run out very soon. It brings with it the feeling of having wasted the weekend - if worked too much, then wasted the weekend working too much and not sleeping/having fun/ticking off all those other jobs to be done apart from work; and if not worked at all - then wasted the opportunity to peacefully sit and analyze some or the other data, or put on the hold some not-so-important-thing which would come and undoubtedly smite me between the eyes on Monday morning.
Sigh.
No no, Life isn't all this bad and I am not this implacable.
I do sometimes wish I had been wiser fifteen years back and known that those were the Golden days, although that would not have served any purpose really. Well, adulthood sucks. I still see myself as a loafer who does not know what she wants. Still trying to decide what to make a career in. Still at a stage where Lipstick seems too grown-up and hence, does not figure in the scheme of things.
Life is slipping me by and I am selling soap. Albeit in a way that is adding a lot of skills and experience and all that to me. Still. I tell you, that is something to be slisha concerned about.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Porn and Popcorn
Weird thing I noticed today.
I had some time to kill at the Sangli railway station, so I was loafing around. I went to the bookshop brimming with curiosity, and what does five seconds of standing there reveal? Magazines of various names and sizes, brimming (yes, nice word, innit) with pictures of voluptuous women in compromising poses.
Yes, with titles like 'Chulbuli kahaniyan', 'Yauvan ka josh' and lots of other colorful stuff that has slipped my obviously geriatric mind.
Hmmm..
The other day, I needed to go to a cyber cafe in Solapur and all people directed me to one 'Balaji' Cyber cafe like it was the Victoria Memorial. And it did turn out to be quite a place. It was buzzing with youngsters, rather - boys. It was like their regular adda spot. They were playing games on LAN, surfing (one can only imagine what) and generally hanging around and smoking.
Life in these little towns is changing. They are probably at a phase in their evolutionary cycle where the Metros were fifteen years back.
But while some things change, some remain just the same. And one of them is the maybe-uniquely-Indian adult obsession with soft-pornography.
I had some time to kill at the Sangli railway station, so I was loafing around. I went to the bookshop brimming with curiosity, and what does five seconds of standing there reveal? Magazines of various names and sizes, brimming (yes, nice word, innit) with pictures of voluptuous women in compromising poses.
Yes, with titles like 'Chulbuli kahaniyan', 'Yauvan ka josh' and lots of other colorful stuff that has slipped my obviously geriatric mind.
Hmmm..
The other day, I needed to go to a cyber cafe in Solapur and all people directed me to one 'Balaji' Cyber cafe like it was the Victoria Memorial. And it did turn out to be quite a place. It was buzzing with youngsters, rather - boys. It was like their regular adda spot. They were playing games on LAN, surfing (one can only imagine what) and generally hanging around and smoking.
Life in these little towns is changing. They are probably at a phase in their evolutionary cycle where the Metros were fifteen years back.
But while some things change, some remain just the same. And one of them is the maybe-uniquely-Indian adult obsession with soft-pornography.
Monday, June 14, 2010
The eight wonders
There is a Hakim-Aalim-Hair-and-Tattoo-lounge near my old place on Carter road and it has since the past half a year sported a hoarding in its vicinity which says - "Javed Habib is pregnant, delivering soon".
It almost sounds ominous. Like who knows what Mr Habib will unleash upon this world and the bourgeois better beware.
So, dear readers!! Tralala..lala..laLALA and all that. I am told that I have eight followers. I see there is merit in not going and checking the number of followers that one has - every hour. One is pleasantly surprised when the number leapfrogs from two to eight. A 300% for those who ingest numbers and unfortunately I know many who do. Although I can derive some solace from the fact that they are probably not among them followers.
I must here insert a statement which umm..states that I am aware of the insignificance of having eight followers. I blog-hob-nob with people who win blog-awards. Eight followers is what their toenails have.
..
It is raining like the blazes in Mumbai. I have never been able to decide whether I love the rains or hate them. I guess, both. It is frustrating when you are stuck in a hell-hole of a traffic jam for three hours and it is pouring, and because it is pouring. It is beautiful when you are watching it raise hell and high water, insistently, persistently, from the safety of the terrace, in the company of a good book, or conversation. It activates sound, light, touch - the works.
One thing suddenly came to me though - it has been close to twelve years since I have thrown all caution to the wind, or the rains in this case, and reveled - getting drenched to the bone and not caring. With no worries of where I need to go, what I am wearing or carrying, how I am going to look or whether I am going to catch the cold of my life. It has been that long since I felt all that.
Prisoners of our own device, we are.
..
Saw Sex and the City part II and came out with a very happy feeling. All glowy and lovey. And he was wearing specs too. That added to it. The women all look old, no doubt. Makes me wonder, do these American women grow to look older before their time? Or is it just the naivete of youth that made me spake these words? Apart from that, their clothes are as bizarre as ever. Big is domesticated and Carrie, the eternal seeker, is still seeking. Let me not even get started on what Samantha is upto.
On slightly more morose topics, work - that heralder of old age before its time (did I just proclaim to be suffering from the naivete of youth?), is doing its job well. My back is fragile and the dentist says I grind my teeth too much. Weird, the kind of things doctors diagnose me with. Next they will be calling me a hypochondriac.
It almost sounds ominous. Like who knows what Mr Habib will unleash upon this world and the bourgeois better beware.
So, dear readers!! Tralala..lala..laLALA and all that. I am told that I have eight followers. I see there is merit in not going and checking the number of followers that one has - every hour. One is pleasantly surprised when the number leapfrogs from two to eight. A 300% for those who ingest numbers and unfortunately I know many who do. Although I can derive some solace from the fact that they are probably not among them followers.
I must here insert a statement which umm..states that I am aware of the insignificance of having eight followers. I blog-hob-nob with people who win blog-awards. Eight followers is what their toenails have.
..
It is raining like the blazes in Mumbai. I have never been able to decide whether I love the rains or hate them. I guess, both. It is frustrating when you are stuck in a hell-hole of a traffic jam for three hours and it is pouring, and because it is pouring. It is beautiful when you are watching it raise hell and high water, insistently, persistently, from the safety of the terrace, in the company of a good book, or conversation. It activates sound, light, touch - the works.
One thing suddenly came to me though - it has been close to twelve years since I have thrown all caution to the wind, or the rains in this case, and reveled - getting drenched to the bone and not caring. With no worries of where I need to go, what I am wearing or carrying, how I am going to look or whether I am going to catch the cold of my life. It has been that long since I felt all that.
Prisoners of our own device, we are.
..
Saw Sex and the City part II and came out with a very happy feeling. All glowy and lovey. And he was wearing specs too. That added to it. The women all look old, no doubt. Makes me wonder, do these American women grow to look older before their time? Or is it just the naivete of youth that made me spake these words? Apart from that, their clothes are as bizarre as ever. Big is domesticated and Carrie, the eternal seeker, is still seeking. Let me not even get started on what Samantha is upto.
On slightly more morose topics, work - that heralder of old age before its time (did I just proclaim to be suffering from the naivete of youth?), is doing its job well. My back is fragile and the dentist says I grind my teeth too much. Weird, the kind of things doctors diagnose me with. Next they will be calling me a hypochondriac.
Wednesday, June 09, 2010
Harvesting Pain
Breezy is over-rated. I don't want to be one of those cheerful, chirpy, always-happy things, these people who bear any and every one of the atrocious misfortunes that befall them with philosophical stolidity. Also, do they even exist?
I have my own perversity through. I have always chosen to torture myself, thinking, as does Calvin's dad, that it would build character. Laughable.
At this point I feel that character has been built enough and is being subjected to the violent blows of this hammer that goes about calling itself Life. It is starting to wear away - character, not the demonic blows.
If only these years would fly past. I would happily wear the crown of the 'been-there-done-that' as opposed to sitting on this rather thorny throne of the 'here-now-and-doing-it'.
I have my own perversity through. I have always chosen to torture myself, thinking, as does Calvin's dad, that it would build character. Laughable.
At this point I feel that character has been built enough and is being subjected to the violent blows of this hammer that goes about calling itself Life. It is starting to wear away - character, not the demonic blows.
If only these years would fly past. I would happily wear the crown of the 'been-there-done-that' as opposed to sitting on this rather thorny throne of the 'here-now-and-doing-it'.
Thursday, June 03, 2010
A weird week
I love the coffee culture. More than coffee itself. I treat these coffee shops as 'homes away from home' - taking books and newspaper to read, the laptop on the rare occasions that I am working from home or at those times when I have to work late and doing that from a warm, buzzing, promising-to-be-serving-up-mugs-of-coffee kinda place makes it so much more tolerable, almost cool. I also treat these places as a meeting point, with brokers and the likes. Glorious is life when there is a coffee place nearby!
In a stroke of bad luck, my back played up again. Must be because of all the carrying and lugging that packing and unpacking entails. Also my landlady generously put a pair of plump mattresses on the bed that she also so kindly provided (yea, I have an actual bed to sleep on now!) but that played havoc with my back. Unlike the Princess in the Pea story, who could not sleep all night due to the presence of a pea beneath some millions of layers of mattresses, give me a hard plank of wood and I will sleep like a babe. Not princess-material, me.
So this week there has been no traveling and lots of staying at home and frankly, I am bored. Traveling is now so much a part of my lifestyle that a week of not, makes me feel as if - hmm..mm..hmmm..as if my nose has suddenly disappeared off my face, you know, an improvement for sure in the general scheme of things, but weird.
Also paid a visit to the dermatologist after the recent escapade at the salon, while I was at the hospital for my back. I have never been to one, and I was a bit apprehensive. I had not even checked before paying the exorbitant consultation charges whether dermatologists do look at scalps. However, he did not miss a beat when I told him that some hairstylist had advised me to get my scalp checked. He checked, and told me lazily - Hats off to her that she managed to scare you like this. They are evil, these beauty parlors. While I kept insisting that he check again - well, I had to get my money's worth - he seemed to get more and more amused.
If you ask me, he seemed like a bit of a sham himself, slightly bored, kinda like he was reserving all his energies for the truly meaty clients like hmm..Hrithik Roshan, whom he had a framed photograph with, in his office. Or ladies who have enough moolah and time to go nip-tuck-lift-botoxx!
Anyhow, what with all my visits to Lilavati hospital, I am now a card-holding member of that landmark institution. And by landmark, I mean, actually so. I always use it to give directions to my home.
The television is also part of the paraphernalia that the flat has come with. And I must say, I wasn't missing much. Although when you are a bit lonely and all that, it does help having a television blaring familiarly from the corner.
As part of the grand initiation ceremony into the new place, I tried to whip up some bread pohe. I love the bread pohe. The only thing that has prevented me from making a staple diet out of it is the fact that I don't eat bread. Such is life. But now that there is whole wheat bread, and multi-grain bread, and three-grain bread and an assortment of healthy options to plain old bread, I decided to get back at it. So in went bread, and some onions, and carrots, topped with some thai sauce and Olive Oil (yea, I bought Olive Oil to cook, I am that pretentious!) and I discovered that I didn't have any matchsticks or a lighter. So I put the thing into the microwave, and skeptically put it on 'Auto-cook' wondering how on earth would it cook the carrots, which are about the hardest things to soften.
I was wrong, oh so wrong. After about ten minutes, when I went in again, I was greeted by a delicious aroma and the sight of molten plastic. Yes, the microwave had reduced my plastic bowl to an abstract-artsy-looking thing. The pohe turned out well though.
All's well that ends well though. Will use the half melted bowl for potpourri. Nice and bohemian. Yes, I am that pretentious. I have potpourri.
In a stroke of bad luck, my back played up again. Must be because of all the carrying and lugging that packing and unpacking entails. Also my landlady generously put a pair of plump mattresses on the bed that she also so kindly provided (yea, I have an actual bed to sleep on now!) but that played havoc with my back. Unlike the Princess in the Pea story, who could not sleep all night due to the presence of a pea beneath some millions of layers of mattresses, give me a hard plank of wood and I will sleep like a babe. Not princess-material, me.
So this week there has been no traveling and lots of staying at home and frankly, I am bored. Traveling is now so much a part of my lifestyle that a week of not, makes me feel as if - hmm..mm..hmmm..as if my nose has suddenly disappeared off my face, you know, an improvement for sure in the general scheme of things, but weird.
Also paid a visit to the dermatologist after the recent escapade at the salon, while I was at the hospital for my back. I have never been to one, and I was a bit apprehensive. I had not even checked before paying the exorbitant consultation charges whether dermatologists do look at scalps. However, he did not miss a beat when I told him that some hairstylist had advised me to get my scalp checked. He checked, and told me lazily - Hats off to her that she managed to scare you like this. They are evil, these beauty parlors. While I kept insisting that he check again - well, I had to get my money's worth - he seemed to get more and more amused.
If you ask me, he seemed like a bit of a sham himself, slightly bored, kinda like he was reserving all his energies for the truly meaty clients like hmm..Hrithik Roshan, whom he had a framed photograph with, in his office. Or ladies who have enough moolah and time to go nip-tuck-lift-botoxx!
Anyhow, what with all my visits to Lilavati hospital, I am now a card-holding member of that landmark institution. And by landmark, I mean, actually so. I always use it to give directions to my home.
The television is also part of the paraphernalia that the flat has come with. And I must say, I wasn't missing much. Although when you are a bit lonely and all that, it does help having a television blaring familiarly from the corner.
As part of the grand initiation ceremony into the new place, I tried to whip up some bread pohe. I love the bread pohe. The only thing that has prevented me from making a staple diet out of it is the fact that I don't eat bread. Such is life. But now that there is whole wheat bread, and multi-grain bread, and three-grain bread and an assortment of healthy options to plain old bread, I decided to get back at it. So in went bread, and some onions, and carrots, topped with some thai sauce and Olive Oil (yea, I bought Olive Oil to cook, I am that pretentious!) and I discovered that I didn't have any matchsticks or a lighter. So I put the thing into the microwave, and skeptically put it on 'Auto-cook' wondering how on earth would it cook the carrots, which are about the hardest things to soften.
I was wrong, oh so wrong. After about ten minutes, when I went in again, I was greeted by a delicious aroma and the sight of molten plastic. Yes, the microwave had reduced my plastic bowl to an abstract-artsy-looking thing. The pohe turned out well though.
All's well that ends well though. Will use the half melted bowl for potpourri. Nice and bohemian. Yes, I am that pretentious. I have potpourri.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Sock in the Solar Plexus
There are some people who were probably reading magazines not meant for them when they should have been in the line where some or the other of the many angels was administering some modesty.
Got the flow? No? Okay. You were probably doing it too when quick-grasping-ability was being ladled out.
The point is that some people strut through life thinking they are the bees knees. But this post is not about that. This post is about how to make them fall down on theirs.
And after rigorous and I must say, excruciating research, I have hit upon the most effective method - A visit to the hairdresser.
Hairdresser? Isn't it O.Nash or some such bird who said that the worst thing that could befall the human race was a visit to the dentist?
..Because some tortures are physical and some are mental,
But the one that is both is dental.
No, that is olde hat. If you want to kill a chap's self-confidence such that he is never able to rise from the depths again, send him for a haircut.
These hair-salons nowadays are peopled by folks of such fortitude that they don't hesitate to bluntly state what your mother would quake in her Bata flip-flops about. Oh, they are brave, undoubtedly in the wrong profession. They should have been operating guillotines during the French revolution.
Disdainfully, across the years, I have been painfully acquainted with the fact that my hair is too thin, is falling too much, is not the right texture, has an extraordinarily high percentage of split ends, turns North when it should face South, and is in general the follicular equivalent of a drug addict caught trying to pawn his blind mother's scrawny jewels. Furthermore, I have been chided about not using the right shampoo, conditioner, toner, light beam, laser. My scalp has not been spared either. I have, on occasion, sported an oily one, at times an extraordinarily dry one, undoubtedly, with sheets of dandruff flowing down the back, and today - horror of horrors, it was accused of having a disease, with suggestion in place that a visit to the Dermatologist was in order.
As I walked away humbled, my spirit a mere shadow of its former self, a scene floated in front of the pensive eye. Date - April the 30th, circa 1945. A little man, with a furious expression and a toothbrush mustache, sits down to get his daily trim, while a somewhat sinister looking character hovers around him with a pair of clippers. A snort, a questioning glance, eyelids heavy with disgust - "They are not what they used to be, Sie ware besser dran ohne sie".
Got the flow? No? Okay. You were probably doing it too when quick-grasping-ability was being ladled out.
The point is that some people strut through life thinking they are the bees knees. But this post is not about that. This post is about how to make them fall down on theirs.
And after rigorous and I must say, excruciating research, I have hit upon the most effective method - A visit to the hairdresser.
Hairdresser? Isn't it O.Nash or some such bird who said that the worst thing that could befall the human race was a visit to the dentist?
..Because some tortures are physical and some are mental,
But the one that is both is dental.
No, that is olde hat. If you want to kill a chap's self-confidence such that he is never able to rise from the depths again, send him for a haircut.
These hair-salons nowadays are peopled by folks of such fortitude that they don't hesitate to bluntly state what your mother would quake in her Bata flip-flops about. Oh, they are brave, undoubtedly in the wrong profession. They should have been operating guillotines during the French revolution.
Disdainfully, across the years, I have been painfully acquainted with the fact that my hair is too thin, is falling too much, is not the right texture, has an extraordinarily high percentage of split ends, turns North when it should face South, and is in general the follicular equivalent of a drug addict caught trying to pawn his blind mother's scrawny jewels. Furthermore, I have been chided about not using the right shampoo, conditioner, toner, light beam, laser. My scalp has not been spared either. I have, on occasion, sported an oily one, at times an extraordinarily dry one, undoubtedly, with sheets of dandruff flowing down the back, and today - horror of horrors, it was accused of having a disease, with suggestion in place that a visit to the Dermatologist was in order.
As I walked away humbled, my spirit a mere shadow of its former self, a scene floated in front of the pensive eye. Date - April the 30th, circa 1945. A little man, with a furious expression and a toothbrush mustache, sits down to get his daily trim, while a somewhat sinister looking character hovers around him with a pair of clippers. A snort, a questioning glance, eyelids heavy with disgust - "They are not what they used to be, Sie ware besser dran ohne sie".
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Past Vs Present
I was going through my older posts, the ones at the beginning, the ones that inspired me to start this blog because I felt I wanted to tell people these things.
I was such a different girl then. Less confused, more aware of my strengths and weaknesses, more honest and brutal about where I stood.
B-school changed me? Taught me how to project an image? I don't know, I have strictly maintained that I have remained honest all along and never pandered to the image-game. But maybe that's an image too.
I was less cynical. Also, the kind of person who believed that anybody else being good, even great, does not mean you are any less. There is place for everybody under the sun. Life as I know it today seems to instinctively suggest that it is a zero-sum game and if I am to save myself from thinking and acting as per that, I need to be wary, guard against getting over-competitive.
Less cynical, I mentioned that. I was more inclined to admire people, accept their ambition and marvel at their brilliance. Where did that go, replaced by a cynicism that questions whether the people who have it all, really deserve it, or whether they really have it all in the first place.
Let me correct it. Let me publicly register admiration for the success of some people/groups of people I have been in-two-minds about at some points in time earlier -
1. Aishwarya Rai - She did do quite well for herself, talent or no talent. And that in itself, is a talent. To be smart enough to know what works for you.
2. Consultants - Difficult lifestyle, to be on the go like that, to gel with the client and its way of working and make oneself useful. Underneath all the B-school shroud of glitz and glamor, a profession that has its place in the sun, it's utility in the food chain. I know some people who are doing great work, learning lots and enjoying themselves too.
3. Sachin Tendulkar - Yes, I know he is a great cricketer and all that. But beyond that, his attitude is what makes him such a legend. Unassuming. And eternal.
4. Angelina Jolie - So I love Jennifer Aniston. But Angelina Jolie has the x-factor. Something about her makes her stand out. Her confidence maybe. Her work with the UN. Her incessant adopting. Her devil-may-care attitude. And she is a good actress to boot.
5. The Tata group - No organization is without its drawbacks. Corruption is like bacteria, it does not require much to survive and multiply. But the Tata group and its stalwart status has survived all that and stands tall today in the world arena - Tetley, Land rover and Jaguar, Corus. The many sectors they are present in in India, and the fact that they have such a strong nationalist image - cannot be just a cleverly-crafted mirage. The name of JRD Tata invokes respect and Ratan Tata has managed to sustain it.
In other news, a ring has been booked. It feels weird and new, that such a thing could be happening to me. I mean, I am still a kid (Not really, I am going to hit the 30's in a couple of years) but it feels like such a grown-up thing! He will tell me that I am an attention-shark and that is what all blog-writers are, as per him, but it makes me so happy, how can I not mention it?
In other non-flashy news, went for Anusmaran. Met people, ate the bizarrely expensive food and came back.
Also, at the verge of shifting houses. Half the packing is done and tonight is my final night in the present acco. It was great fun, being in the heart of Bandra - the room with no view. And not even a bed. Well, nothing much changes. My new home is also pretty much in the heart of B, has no view again and probably will not have much room for a bed. The only difference is that I shall be living all by myself now - which has been my dream since I was an adolescent bemoaning the lack of privacy in an all too crowded family of four. Like all things in life, a dream remains alluring only till when it comes true.
300 sq feet and a fortune for that. Such is life in this megalopolis if you want to live anywhere within cycling distance of someplace to restore the overwrought nerves at - not that I cycle. I never learnt to. Yes, there, I have said it.
What else. The mood of this post has got decidedly jauntier by the word. Such is the power of positive thinking. And love.
I was such a different girl then. Less confused, more aware of my strengths and weaknesses, more honest and brutal about where I stood.
B-school changed me? Taught me how to project an image? I don't know, I have strictly maintained that I have remained honest all along and never pandered to the image-game. But maybe that's an image too.
I was less cynical. Also, the kind of person who believed that anybody else being good, even great, does not mean you are any less. There is place for everybody under the sun. Life as I know it today seems to instinctively suggest that it is a zero-sum game and if I am to save myself from thinking and acting as per that, I need to be wary, guard against getting over-competitive.
Less cynical, I mentioned that. I was more inclined to admire people, accept their ambition and marvel at their brilliance. Where did that go, replaced by a cynicism that questions whether the people who have it all, really deserve it, or whether they really have it all in the first place.
Let me correct it. Let me publicly register admiration for the success of some people/groups of people I have been in-two-minds about at some points in time earlier -
1. Aishwarya Rai - She did do quite well for herself, talent or no talent. And that in itself, is a talent. To be smart enough to know what works for you.
2. Consultants - Difficult lifestyle, to be on the go like that, to gel with the client and its way of working and make oneself useful. Underneath all the B-school shroud of glitz and glamor, a profession that has its place in the sun, it's utility in the food chain. I know some people who are doing great work, learning lots and enjoying themselves too.
3. Sachin Tendulkar - Yes, I know he is a great cricketer and all that. But beyond that, his attitude is what makes him such a legend. Unassuming. And eternal.
4. Angelina Jolie - So I love Jennifer Aniston. But Angelina Jolie has the x-factor. Something about her makes her stand out. Her confidence maybe. Her work with the UN. Her incessant adopting. Her devil-may-care attitude. And she is a good actress to boot.
5. The Tata group - No organization is without its drawbacks. Corruption is like bacteria, it does not require much to survive and multiply. But the Tata group and its stalwart status has survived all that and stands tall today in the world arena - Tetley, Land rover and Jaguar, Corus. The many sectors they are present in in India, and the fact that they have such a strong nationalist image - cannot be just a cleverly-crafted mirage. The name of JRD Tata invokes respect and Ratan Tata has managed to sustain it.
In other news, a ring has been booked. It feels weird and new, that such a thing could be happening to me. I mean, I am still a kid (Not really, I am going to hit the 30's in a couple of years) but it feels like such a grown-up thing! He will tell me that I am an attention-shark and that is what all blog-writers are, as per him, but it makes me so happy, how can I not mention it?
In other non-flashy news, went for Anusmaran. Met people, ate the bizarrely expensive food and came back.
Also, at the verge of shifting houses. Half the packing is done and tonight is my final night in the present acco. It was great fun, being in the heart of Bandra - the room with no view. And not even a bed. Well, nothing much changes. My new home is also pretty much in the heart of B, has no view again and probably will not have much room for a bed. The only difference is that I shall be living all by myself now - which has been my dream since I was an adolescent bemoaning the lack of privacy in an all too crowded family of four. Like all things in life, a dream remains alluring only till when it comes true.
300 sq feet and a fortune for that. Such is life in this megalopolis if you want to live anywhere within cycling distance of someplace to restore the overwrought nerves at - not that I cycle. I never learnt to. Yes, there, I have said it.
What else. The mood of this post has got decidedly jauntier by the word. Such is the power of positive thinking. And love.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Amusement Park
Alec's latest post comes like a whiff of fresh air. While I look around, struggling to find things which are going right, here comes a post laden with little packets of joy which burst into remembrances about things which make my life so much richer - like a favorite smell, a favorite month, a favorite season, without my I even realizing it.
Kavity's latest also resonates and I am surprised to see how many people it resonates with. Looks like all these foreign-migrated people have been terrorizing junta back at home with details of their lives and worse - expectations of us knowing all those details by heart.
My life is, as usual, doing its roller-coaster routine. At times, I feel like this has to be bliss. Now this, has to be bliss - waking up on a Saturday, going to one of the many (although now that I have gone to all, the choices seem limited) places around that serve a good breakfast. Bandra has a very chilled-out air about it, actually certain bits of Bandra. The young or the young-at-heart throng these coffee-shops, I see young families with their cherubs and their ayaas in tow, single men and women with a book in one hand and a large mug of coffee in the other, looking rather bohemian and extremely at peace with the world, couplets or groups of girls, catching up on news from the week, couples of slightly older women, discussing everything from their neighbor's children to the businesses that they run, young guys and girls - groups of friends, and young guy and girl - out on a date (although these are mostly in the evenings) playing their stereotypes to perfection - the guy trying his best to take her case, make fun of her, and the girl trying her best to look half-annoyed, half-flattered over all the nervous, flirtatious undertones, then the slightly older guy and girl, been dating for some time, obviously not married, looking like they don't have a care in the world.
The point being that at times like these, when I am tucking into a 'healthy' and scrumptious white omelet-brown bread-nutralite butter spread, the heart takes wings and I see it fluttering high above the Bandra skyline.
Recently read this awesome book called Exploding Mangoes, written by a Pak-born journalist residing in Britain now. He has spoken with a lot of audacity about the charade the Pakistani governance is, or was, under military rule. It is an alleged (in the author's own words) fictional account, of an attempt to assassinate General Zia, along the way giving us a peek into the military training that the Pakistani young go through, the way they use India and Indian references as a form of insult and their ease with the Americans and their role in the Taliban as we know it today.
Also, watched a couple of really good movies - Guess who's coming to dinner and Cactus Flower. I would absolutely recommend them, GWCTD for the crisp dialogues and CF for the brilliant performances and amazing background music.
Will end on a warning note though - whatever you do, do not watch the latest Gurinder Chaddha disaster. It makes me sick.
Kavity's latest also resonates and I am surprised to see how many people it resonates with. Looks like all these foreign-migrated people have been terrorizing junta back at home with details of their lives and worse - expectations of us knowing all those details by heart.
My life is, as usual, doing its roller-coaster routine. At times, I feel like this has to be bliss. Now this, has to be bliss - waking up on a Saturday, going to one of the many (although now that I have gone to all, the choices seem limited) places around that serve a good breakfast. Bandra has a very chilled-out air about it, actually certain bits of Bandra. The young or the young-at-heart throng these coffee-shops, I see young families with their cherubs and their ayaas in tow, single men and women with a book in one hand and a large mug of coffee in the other, looking rather bohemian and extremely at peace with the world, couplets or groups of girls, catching up on news from the week, couples of slightly older women, discussing everything from their neighbor's children to the businesses that they run, young guys and girls - groups of friends, and young guy and girl - out on a date (although these are mostly in the evenings) playing their stereotypes to perfection - the guy trying his best to take her case, make fun of her, and the girl trying her best to look half-annoyed, half-flattered over all the nervous, flirtatious undertones, then the slightly older guy and girl, been dating for some time, obviously not married, looking like they don't have a care in the world.
The point being that at times like these, when I am tucking into a 'healthy' and scrumptious white omelet-brown bread-nutralite butter spread, the heart takes wings and I see it fluttering high above the Bandra skyline.
Recently read this awesome book called Exploding Mangoes, written by a Pak-born journalist residing in Britain now. He has spoken with a lot of audacity about the charade the Pakistani governance is, or was, under military rule. It is an alleged (in the author's own words) fictional account, of an attempt to assassinate General Zia, along the way giving us a peek into the military training that the Pakistani young go through, the way they use India and Indian references as a form of insult and their ease with the Americans and their role in the Taliban as we know it today.
Also, watched a couple of really good movies - Guess who's coming to dinner and Cactus Flower. I would absolutely recommend them, GWCTD for the crisp dialogues and CF for the brilliant performances and amazing background music.
Will end on a warning note though - whatever you do, do not watch the latest Gurinder Chaddha disaster. It makes me sick.
Saturday, May 01, 2010
DLE
It is difficult to explain what really happened in the last four days. Because it is really quite absurd.
The company has this tie-up with one global firm which does leadership development courses for many companies. They have a four-day program called DLE - Developing Leadership Effectiveness. It has been a tradition in my company since long to send groups of unsuspecting managers to this program with the hope that they come out knowing how to become effective leaders.
Smacks of cynicism. I was, a cynic. A closet cynic till I went there. Even till the third day. Not any longer though.
So there is a group of peers, around twenty-eight of us from all over the country who land up and are confined within a room from 9 am to 6 pm for four days without any mobile phones or laptops along with the founding pillars of this program - a Mr Gareth and a Ms Amelia.
The modus operandi, and that is what it is, because Gareth and Amelia have been in this business since the last twenty years or so and everything that they do is calculated to the last insult. And insult is what they do. They insult us till we feel like we are morons.
The intention is to make us own up to our fears and our hang-ups. Our pretty little escape algorithms. The stories we tell ourselves whenever we do anything we know that we really should not be doing and is not going to help us.
It sounds like a lot of humbug and frankly speaking, I did not like being screamed at for the first three days. But that is what drove it home, when I am being dishonest with myself, I am doing a great disservice to my potential.
I also noticed, or rather it was brought to my notice that I, and in this case, I shall speak for most people, tend to seek refuge behind the safety of the collective - WE or the non-committed - ONE or the indefinite - YOU. For example, most of our sentences there begun like - "When such and such thing happens, YOU tend to do such and such..Or ONE thinks one is committed, when ONE is really not..Or WE always think that is the right way.." SAFETY! I want to be emotionally safe. I want to say things such that there is always some exit room to wriggle out. Instead of taking sole responsibility, I want everyone present to bear the guilt of what I have said.
I didn't participate much and I got screamed at for that. Because not wanting to open up in front of near strangers is also a hang-up and merits thinking about.
But here goes, I mean to change a few things and here they are -
I tend to take the back-seat when I find myself in a group where somebody knows how to do the task at hand better than me, or so it seems. I sort of take for granted that person's superior role in achieving that task.
I do not open up to strangers, or even people I have known since a long time but am not 'close' to. Why, because I would not know how that person would think of me and my insecurities. Would only open up in front of people who I know would love me/like me irrespective of what they hear. So, I don't accept myself the way I am and fear that others will not.
I link my self-worth to my success at the tasks I perform. If I fail at something at work, it means I fail, period.
There are many others. Like they said, we are born free of any hang-ups. But as we grow up, based on our experiences, we collect all these beliefs and build a personality around these beliefs.
I really want to shatter these so-called truisms of my life. I want to come clean, and to remain that way. So here I am, all of me, for-public-consumption.
The company has this tie-up with one global firm which does leadership development courses for many companies. They have a four-day program called DLE - Developing Leadership Effectiveness. It has been a tradition in my company since long to send groups of unsuspecting managers to this program with the hope that they come out knowing how to become effective leaders.
Smacks of cynicism. I was, a cynic. A closet cynic till I went there. Even till the third day. Not any longer though.
So there is a group of peers, around twenty-eight of us from all over the country who land up and are confined within a room from 9 am to 6 pm for four days without any mobile phones or laptops along with the founding pillars of this program - a Mr Gareth and a Ms Amelia.
The modus operandi, and that is what it is, because Gareth and Amelia have been in this business since the last twenty years or so and everything that they do is calculated to the last insult. And insult is what they do. They insult us till we feel like we are morons.
The intention is to make us own up to our fears and our hang-ups. Our pretty little escape algorithms. The stories we tell ourselves whenever we do anything we know that we really should not be doing and is not going to help us.
It sounds like a lot of humbug and frankly speaking, I did not like being screamed at for the first three days. But that is what drove it home, when I am being dishonest with myself, I am doing a great disservice to my potential.
I also noticed, or rather it was brought to my notice that I, and in this case, I shall speak for most people, tend to seek refuge behind the safety of the collective - WE or the non-committed - ONE or the indefinite - YOU. For example, most of our sentences there begun like - "When such and such thing happens, YOU tend to do such and such..Or ONE thinks one is committed, when ONE is really not..Or WE always think that is the right way.." SAFETY! I want to be emotionally safe. I want to say things such that there is always some exit room to wriggle out. Instead of taking sole responsibility, I want everyone present to bear the guilt of what I have said.
I didn't participate much and I got screamed at for that. Because not wanting to open up in front of near strangers is also a hang-up and merits thinking about.
But here goes, I mean to change a few things and here they are -
I tend to take the back-seat when I find myself in a group where somebody knows how to do the task at hand better than me, or so it seems. I sort of take for granted that person's superior role in achieving that task.
I do not open up to strangers, or even people I have known since a long time but am not 'close' to. Why, because I would not know how that person would think of me and my insecurities. Would only open up in front of people who I know would love me/like me irrespective of what they hear. So, I don't accept myself the way I am and fear that others will not.
I link my self-worth to my success at the tasks I perform. If I fail at something at work, it means I fail, period.
There are many others. Like they said, we are born free of any hang-ups. But as we grow up, based on our experiences, we collect all these beliefs and build a personality around these beliefs.
I really want to shatter these so-called truisms of my life. I want to come clean, and to remain that way. So here I am, all of me, for-public-consumption.
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